


Not A One-Way Street

by enoughtotemptme



Series: BellarkeFicWeek [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Fluff, Vague Optimistic Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/pseuds/enoughtotemptme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy hates that noise that Clarke makes when she thinks he’s full of it, so he sets out to prove to her that he’s telling the truth. </p><p>BellarkeFicWeek 2015 Prompt: Day 06 You're Beautiful AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A One-Way Street

Clarke doesn’t know why Bellamy’s been following her around all afternoon, but she’s not sure if she likes it. Sure, she likes _him,_ even loves him most of the time,but he’s being incredibly strange.

He’s there when she greets Fox by the water barrels. He’s there when she lectures Wick about teaching the kids science-themed pick-up lines during his morning physics lecture. He’s there when she ducks into the cabin they now share to change her shirt after Monty accidentally spills a cup of his latest brew all over her (and, okay, that time she doesn’t mind his presence so much because whenever Clarke’s shirtless, Bellamy’s always prone to doing very _interesting_ things about it).

But, still. He’s been right behind her _all afternoon._ It’s been _hours_ of playing mother duck to his duckling. And it’s not like he’s being totally unobtrusive. No, Bellamy pipes up regularly with the most peculiar of comments, and it’s driving Clarke _up_ the _wall._

Now she’s filing through the cookhouse and filling a dinner tray. Bellamy’s right behind her, and when he observes that the color of the berry preserves is the same as her lips _except, er, darker, but still pretty_ , she’s had enough.

“That’s it!” she says, and drops her plate back on the buffet. She grabs Bellamy’s collar and drags him past a sniggering Murphy and a confused Harper. In the middle of winter, it’s cold enough that most people will go straight from getting their food in the cookhouse to eating around the fires, so for privacy Clarke tows him toward the rows of cabins instead.

“Okay, what the hell is going on with you?” Clarke demands once they’ve gone far enough from the dinner-goers, whirling around and poking a finger into his (distractingly firm) chest. Bellamy’s eyes shift briefly away from hers, and the scar along his temple and the freckles that bridge across his nose are shown up by the flush that touches his face.

“What do you mean?” he says lamely.

Clarke glares at him. “That weird ass berry comment? That’s the seventh time you’ve commented on my appearance today,” she reminds him. “The ninth compliment if you count your mentions of my ‘nice, low voice’ and my ‘neat, even stitches.’ What gives?”

“I, uh, wanted to make you feel…beautiful,” he admits awkwardly.

Clarke just gapes at him. “... _What_?”

“You heard me,” he says defensively, his shoulders hunching a little. “I’m sure as hell not saying it again.”

Clarke can’t help but roll her eyes at that. Bellamy Blake is capable of being both the world’s biggest moron and the world’s biggest softy.

“Bellamy,” she says, “That’s very, er, sweet, but I know what I look like. I don’t need compliments, however _unique_ they may be, to tell me I look good.” He’s looking at her funny and she hastens to explain. “Attractiveness is a spectrum with quantifiable factors, and if you fit certain criteria, there’s a reasonable expectation that you’re considered pretty, or hot, or whatever.”  

Bellamy frowns at her. “First of all, all that sciencey jargon you just spit out sounds like bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. Second of all, I didn’t say that you look _good,_ ” he says. “I said _beautiful._ ”

Clarke blinks at him. “Is there a difference?”

But Bellamy ignores her. “And I don’t just want you to know _objectively_ that you look _good_ , Clarke. I want to make you _feel_ beautiful.”

“I-I don’t think that’s a very appropriate activity for the middle of camp,” Clarke stutters out in an attempt to lighten the mood that’s become a little strange and heavy.

He ignores it (and she’s not surprised; it _was_ a pretty pathetic attempt).

“I know you, Clarke, and while you’re pretty good at acknowledging the logic of something, you’re not always as good at believing in it,” Bellamy says.

“That’s not true!” Clarke protests. “I am so.”

“Yeah?” challenges Bellamy. “Then explain last week.”

“Uh,” says Clarke. “What?” She tries to think of what on earth Bellamy could be talking about, but she’s drawing a blank.

“Last week,” Bellamy says again, “When we were in TonDC for the solstice festival, you went on and on about how beautiful the _Trikru_ were in their fancy party paint, and how nice Octavia looked in her new cloak, and how great Monroe and Fox’s braids looked. But when I told you that _you_ looked pretty, you made that noise you make, the one in your throat, when you think someone is full of shit.”

“I do _not_ make a noise like that,” Clarke scoffs.

“That noise! You just made it!”

She did? Oops. She did. Well, that doesn’t prove anything.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says patiently. “How much do you remember about the festival?”  

He shrugs. “All the important bits. Fancy paint, fancy dancing, fancy food.”

“Fancy alcohol,” Clarke adds dryly. “Bellamy, that pomegranate wine hit me so hard and fast that I was drunk by the time I finished the first glass.”

“So?” He’s got that petulant look on his face, the one that he insists _is not a pout, Clarke, honestly, I’m a grown man_ but it absolutely is and it absolutely makes Clarke want to kiss the look off his face every single time she sees it.

“ _So,_ ” Clarke says, “You know how I usually get, Bellamy. Everyone’s beautiful, everything’s wonderful, everybody gets compliments.”

Clarke thinks this a perfectly reasonable explanation for her apparent behavior during the festival, but Bellamy’s shaking his head.

“I know you’re a happy drunk, but then why did you make your disagreeing noise?” he asks.

“Well.” Clarke pauses. “I don’t know.” (Bellamy is giving her his _I told you so_ look now, which she thinks is infinitely less adorable than his not-a-pout.) “Hell, Bellamy, I don’t remember a lot of what happened at the festival––you haven’t proved anything.”

Bellamy shrugs and crosses his arms. “Don’t care. I’m right, you’re wrong, you _are_ beautiful, and I’m going to prove it to you.”

“Oh god,” says Clarke.

* * *

 Thankfully, it’s a rare day that Bellamy has the entire afternoon off, so he lays off following her around on a daily basis. Of course, they still eat together, sleep and wake together, makes bets together about the status of Raven and Wick’s dance around one another, attend Lincoln and Octavia’s _Trigedasleng_ lessons together––so Bellamy still gets in plenty of awkward but sweet compliments.

Being apart doesn’t necessarily stop Bellamy’s silly campaign to insist that Clarke’s beautiful, though. When Clarke walks by Bellamy’s classics lecture two mornings later, he’s expounding loudly on the many characteristics of Aphrodite, known for being the greek goddess of love, pleasure, and beauty _; incidentally, she’s often depicted with curly blonde hair and, little known fact, one of her pseudonyms is ‘Clarke’-–isn’t_ that _a coincidence, guys?_

Another two days go by, and Monroe presents Clarke with a little set of paints the girl had made out of various gathered herbs and plants. When pressed, Monroe admitted that Bellamy had requested she do it, so Clarke could paint something “as pretty as she is.” Clarke can’t quite figure out if Bellamy actually _said_ something that cheesy, or if Monroe’s embellishing, but she can feel her cheeks heat up as she rolls her eyes.

(She uses the little potted paints that night after dinner. They’re wonderful.)

Murphy, looking slightly murderous, stops by the medbay just before lunch the day after _that_. Obviously under duress of some sort, he delivers a tiny scrap of paper with Bellamy’s handwriting scrawled across it.

This in itself isn’t new––she’s got a little satchel full of the notes he’s left her here and there over the last year––but all of _those_ notes are full of everyday things with only brief hints of the massive softy that is peacetime Bellamy Blake.

 _This_ note, however, is Bellamy’s handwriting but not his own words. Once Murphy delivers the note and bolts, Clarke takes a moment to stare at the writing.

_Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate_

The sonnet continues on, but Clarke just stares at the note. A lot of pre-cataclysm literature has been lost, but she recognizes the surviving Shakespeare that Bellamy penned for her, no doubt from memory. She shouldn’t be surprised, not really; she knows that Bellamy’s well educated. But she can honestly say she never in her life expected to receive a Shakespearean love poem from Bellamy Blake.

What a huge, ridiculously attractive, absolutely adorable, stupidly lovable _nerd_.

* * *

She corners him that evening when he finishes talking over plans for a new all-weather mess hall with Miller and some of the others.

“Come on,” she says, and Bellamy catches her hand.

“What’s up?” he asks curiously. Once they’ve moved at least a little further from the loitering groups of their people, Clarke turns to face him.

“Alright,” she says, waving the sonnet in front of his face, “You’ve convinced me. I feel more beautiful than I ever have in my entire life.”

Bellamy looks from the note to her grumpy face and grins. “Are you sure? You don’t look like you’re feeling especially beautiful.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she replies. “After _this_ –” (she wiggles the note under his nose again) “I don’t see how I could ever doubt it.”

“Knew you couldn’t resist my logic and charm, princess,” Bellamy replies, a smug look taking over his features.

Clarke ignores him and continues. “The question _I_ have, Bellamy Blake, is do _you_ know _you’re_ beautiful.”

“...What?” He’s gone from smug to looking at her skeptically.

“This isn’t a one-way street, Bellamy. Beauty is an equal-opportunity characteristic,” she informs him in a conversational tone.

“Right,” he says slowly.

“The thing is,” Clarke says, “while your methods of convincing me were, uh, unconventional but successful, they weren’t the speediest of options.”

She continues talking over his protests about _an uncooperative subject_ and _not aware this was a race, princess!_ “I have in mind a different method of persuading you to acknowledge your own beauty.”

That’s got Bellamy shutting his mouth and looking at her appraisingly.

“Oh?” he says, quirking a brow at her.

“Yes.” She nods solemnly. “I’m sure I will be very successful, and quickly.”

“What makes you so sure?” he asks.

“Well, I’d demonstrate right now, but…” she trails off.

“Yeah?” Bellamy says.

Clarke smiles a slow, sly smile. “But _my_ methods of persuasion are better suited for more _private_ accommodations.”

“Well,” Bellamy replies immediately, “I’m sorry to say that I’m feeling particularly ugly right now, princess, so maybe we should head to our cabin?”

Clarke laughs and winds her arm through his, allowing him to lead her determinedly toward their quarters. Once there, she proceeds to demonstrate _exactly_ how beautiful he is to her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sixth in a series of oneshots based on b-ellamyblakes tumblr prompts for BellarkeFicWeek 2015. They're set in the canon universe, but they were written pre-Rubicon and they're going to stay that way.
> 
> Just a reminder, the series of oneshots are connected stories, so if you're interested in reading more about this particular Bellamy and Clarke, go ahead and check those out!


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